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Wispy Words
Remembering Our Secret Places
by A. Raby
Often as children, and sometimes as adults, we find a place which becomes ours. The place usually does not legally belong to us, yet in our hearts it only ever belongs to us.
Some of our fondest memories are in these places: times when we felt safe, felt undeniable joy, or just felt all was right with the world, that rare word content. As adults the hurries and worries rush us from place to place, driving us forward until we find ourselves years older, wearier, not the people we wish to see ourselves.
Why don’t we take a minute to slow down, remember those places, and perhaps rediscover the very best of ourselves we leave sitting in those places? To make it easier for you, I’ll go first.
The first place I’ll share with you is an old willow tree in Jefferson, Wisconsin. It might not be there physically anymore. It’s been a long time since I was around those parts, but I’ll take you back there anyway. I discovered the foundations one day, so I put in the work and rebuilt the floor. It was all I needed. The willow itself hid much of it from the outside world. Its branches provided all the shade and shelter I needed. Besides, the way the branches moved in the wind was mesmerizing.
Only later in life did I find I was looking for “the name of the wind.” This place, only a platform in a tree, was a fortress for me. Home life then was difficult, to say the least.
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At night I would go out there after everyone else was asleep. I would sit and read or watch the breeze and branches play. Often, the night train would come roaring past, whisking my thoughts elsewhere. It would take me some time to come back. Here, I have some of the best parts of me. My courage, facing down the things that are bigger than me, things the world tells me I can never take on.
My resolve and determination, knowing with an innocent surety I can make it through anything. Even if I’m defeated, I will survive the wreckage and pick up the pieces.
Death is never an ending, only a transition. This place was my best quality: hope. I hope tomorrow will be better. This hope keeps me alive, drives my courage and determination, is the flame beneath my passions. Funny thing to think a tree fort could give you courage, determination—and hope, huh?
The next place where I find a piece of myself is on an island in the Rock River in the middle of Watertown, Wisconsin. I’ve written about this place before. The walk through a little piece of nature to get to something which is technically unnatural teaches me a lot. On a piece of old pebblestone wall, overlooking the water rushing over the dam, as the water flows around me, the roar of the water fills the silence, and I sit in balance.
Balance is an important personal concept, often overlooked. Trying to keep that balance is tricky, yet in that balance lies contentment. I do know what it means to be content, as well as exactly what it means otherwise. From this knowledge comes another best quality: compassion.
I know others are still searching, still hurting, and this place of balance and contentment allows me to put myself in their shoes without becoming them. In a way, compassion is the very quality which anchors me, keeps me grounded. Even in the middle of rushing water, I am still me.
Lastly, my core secret place. It’s my grandmother’s garden. I wish my words could do the place proper justice. It doesn’t exist anymore, and my grandmother has been dead some 20 years. It wasn’t a big garden, perhaps only a 40-square-foot area, but it held amazing colors and scents.
It still exists in my mind, however. The sunflowers are always bright yellow. The smell of the lilac bush overthrows almost everything else. The sky above is purest blue with a few fluffy clouds. The bees are buzzing around, and little birds flit in and out of the bushes.
As I sit in the place, in a little Chicago suburb, I hear my grandmother singing. Her voice is a bit warbly, perhaps, but joyful and free. In this place, I remember my six-year-old self sitting deliriously happy, because apart from Grandma’s cookies and the warm sunshine, he knows he is loved.
Because of this, I know I am loved, and in that, I love those I care about all the more fiercely.
These secret places are a part of me. They make up the best of who I am: hopeful, compassionate, and loving. In rediscovering these places, I rediscover me. Take a moment to consider places which make you, which help you realize the positive qualities in yourself. Where are your secret places? What do you leave in these places?
Anthony Raby writes from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He is the author of Fractured Minds and Lost Souls, a collection of short stories and poetry. The book is available for $15 from Earth Star or Amazon.com and also comes in eBook format from Kindle for $5.99.
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Aspen Canopy photo by Ann Ulrich Miller
Ruby Beach, Washington State
photo by Ann Ulrich Miller
The Prayer Stick Ceremony
Author’s Note: This was a blog entry I wrote in December 2009, seven months after I’d moved to Pagosa Springs, Colo. Fifteen months had passed since my husband, Ethan Miller, had passed away following a long illness at our home in Ohio.
Two weeks ago a shift occurred. Right after Thanksgiving, I discovered that something wonderful had come into my life ... a new man, a new love ... and I am so distracted, I am having trouble focusing on my work, completing projects, shopping for Christmas gifts ... it is the most remarkable thing that has ever happened to me.
Those of you who are familiar with my background and my story, Throughout All Time (my spiritual autobiography), may find it strange that I would admit to having found another soul mate. But that is exactly what has happened to me. Doug came into my life at the exact right moment ... although both of us wish it had happened sooner.
My belief is that Ethan (my late husband) “hand picked” Doug as the perfect man for me to live with the rest of my life. This whole affair seems to be cosmically orchestrated, and since that is how my life has operated in the last 50+ years, it makes perfect sense to me.
I had been clinging to Ethan’s memory for too long. I didn’t want to give up that love and my safe, comfortable position as Ethan’s widow. I told myself over and over again that I could not possibly ever find another man to equal what we had shared together. He himself had told me many times that I might have other lovers in my life, but there could never be anyone who could make me as happy as he had.
Of course I believed him. I had not been interested in men after his death, yet when the anniversary of his passing arrived, I began to allow myself to think about the possibility of finding a “companion,” someone who might go through life with me and help me out with things now and then. I wasn’t thinking in terms of falling back in “love.”
It was early October, just three weeks after the anniversary of his passing, when I met my neighbor Donna in the bank one morning. She told me they had just sold their house (the beautiful cabin right across from me) and I was sad because I knew I would miss Donna, but happy because they had finally sold their house, which had been for sale since before I moved in. Anyway, Donna told me about the man who had bought their house and for some strange reason I got all prickly and it was like I was having a premonition of some kind ... I didn’t know what to think.
I found myself growing increasingly excited about meeting this man. I could hardly wait for the day to come when he would move in. But at the same time, I was still clinging to Ethan, still making myself grieve now and then, still unable to take off my wedding ring.
Just before Thanksgiving, Doug moved in. I was busy and couldn’t take the time to go over and introduce myself right away. But we met, quite by coincidence, at the mailboxes at the end of our street. We had a conversation that made me think I had known him already a long time. Then a couple of days later, we coincidentally met there again. It got to be so that every time I took my afternoon walk to the mailboxes, I’d see Doug.
On Thanksgiving Day I removed my ruby wedding ring from my left hand. I tried wearing it on my right hand (because I was still clinging to Ethan), but it didn’t feel right. I finally said to heck with it and put the ring away in the drawer along with Ethan’s gold wedding band.
After Thanksgiving I was invited to the home of some friends who were into Native American rituals and drumming. It was Full Moon and they wanted to do a “prayer stick ceremony.” Each of us took a piece of firewood and with a black marker we wrote on one side of the wood the things we wanted to let go of. On the other side we wrote the things that we wanted to manifest in our lives.
After some careful thought, I decided to write “grieving and sadness” on the end of my prayer stick that contained those things I wanted to release. And on the other side I wrote, “The beginning of a beautiful relationship.” Next, we each took turns tossing our sticks into the wood fire and watching them go up in smoke. Then the drumming began ... it was magical ...
The next day I saw Doug and we sat and talked in his house. I invited him to a lecture that week and he accepted. It was the beginning of our relationship. It was the beginning of our relationship. It happened so fast, so spontaneously ... and the synchronicities we experienced kept happening over and over again. I really got the feeling that it was destiny that brought us together at this time. Doug calls it “karma.” To me it’s a shift in my life.
I have never known this much happiness with another human being ... even Ethan, who was my soul mate ... so how can this be? How can I come to terms with having a love in my life that already supersedes the feelings I had with my twin flame? The only answer I can see is ... it was meant to be this way. There were things I needed to go through with Ethan that would help me grow and evolve into the person I am today.
Now is the time to move on, to reap the rewards from all those years of learning what it means to truly love. Thank you, Ethan, for helping me find Doug. My life will never be the same.
Ten years later I am reading this and realizing that we do create our reality. Sometimes it takes a bit of sweat and tears, a little heartache and confusion from time to time ... but in the end it’s worth it to follow your heart and your Guidance. I thank God for the many blessings in my life, along with the challenges and mistakes from which we learn and grow. Happy Birthday, Doug!
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Ann Ulrich Miller, editor of Wisp and The Star Beacon, is anxiously awaiting the Spring Equinox so she can attack those weeds she didn’t get to last year in the back yard.
FINALIST in the Eric Hoffer Book Awards 2015
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